Vacillation
by The Atomic Cafe
Summary: Happy birthday, Mac. MacStella, reference to MacPeyton.


**Vacillation**

**By Dimgwrthien**

_Disclaimer: I do not own CSI: NY or affiliates._

I study his apartment door for a moment. It's become a habit now. There's no real reason for why I study the doorknob, the numbers on the door, the doorframe except like I like how much it reminds me of Mac. There are no fingerprints or key scratches. Not a single scratch on the doorframe. I don't know how he manages this - even when I moved into my apartment, it had it's small imperfections that I could never fix.

I knock on the door after a moment. Mac always answers his door quickly. It's almost off-putting, as though he knows you've been standing outside. It takes him longer than usual to open it, though, and I can't figure out why.

Mac smiles. "Hey, Stella."

I can't help but notice the small crease in his forehead, as though he's still trying to piece together why I'm there. I have to grin.

"Hey. Happy birthday."

The crease disappears as though I just reminded him of the reason. His smile widens.

"Thanks." He gives me a doubtful look. "You came over here to tell me that?"

I never said it to him at work today. I fought it down even as Lindsay and Danny wished him a happy birthday. Standing in front of Mac this late at night, I almost feel guilty that I don't have a present on me for him. Maybe a watch or some other stupid thing that says nothing about us. I remember my reason for being there and smile again.

"Not quite." I give him a bright smile until my cheeks feel sore. Mac's lips turn up a little. "I'm inviting you out for a birthday dinner."

Mac gives me what may be a smirk, but I've never seen Mac smirk. A wry smile, maybe, but it doesn't seem to make sense. He glances backwards into his apartment. I don't know at what.

"Alright," he says after a second.

"Don't sound so put-off," I joke. He smiles and shakes his head. "You always love my birthday dinners." When he glances backwards again, I finally see at what. "Unless you're waiting for a call."

Mac shakes his head. "No. It's fine." He grabs his coat from the side of the door. "Where are you planning this year?"

I think about it. I hadn't actually planned a place yet - usually, we drive around the city until somewhere looks good. "Maybe…" I can't think of anywhere yet. I categorize the restaurants I know in my head: Mexican, Italian, French, Ethiopian, Greek…

Instead of answering, I lean in and kiss his lips. They're tight in surprise, and I quickly lean back.

"What -?" Mac asks. He raises his hand as though to touch his lips, then drops it.

"Happy birthday," I say again. This time I lean in slower, catching him when he's aware. I can taste hesitation on his lips, but he slowly returns the kiss.

I reach behind him and push the door wider, then walk him backwards. His hands are around my waist now, and I put mine on his shoulders. We're kissing rough now, our lips pushing hard enough to bruise then breaking apart for gasps of air.

Mac has no patience. I've noticed it on a few occasions. It's funny to think about, considering his job and how he always acts. I learned this the hard way a long time ago, when I woke after one of these nights with sore shoulders after he pushed me against a wall instead of letting us get onto a bed or a couch or anything else available.

I beat him to it this time. I put him against the wall with strength I didn't expect out of myself now, and he doesn't seem to notice.

I remember last year, when we started like this. I had unbuttoned his shirt slowly, and we never made it to dinner until eleven. I don't try now. His hands are still on my waist, and I know that he doesn't want to yet.

I kick the door closed.

Mac's hands work their way up onto my arms, holding me in place. I can feel a smile forming on my lips, and I push it back. Whenever I smile, I break into laughter, and I don't - can't - bring myself to ruin this.

"I shouldn't be doing this," he whispers between kisses.

I don't care. I feel at home right there. I put my palms flat against the wall, leaning in tight to be pressed against him.

The phone rings, and Mac freezes. It's like his entire body is frozen in place. I feel too close to him, as though I'm a part of him, and even my blood stops with his.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, moving away from me. He brushes back his short hair as he picks up the phone. I put my forehead against the wall, thankful for the cold relief it provides. He speaks low into the phone, and I can feel his eyes boring into me as he speaks.

Mac hangs up the phone and returns to me. I can feel him behind me, standing far enough away not to touch me.

"Need to go?" I ask.

"No."

I turn around and straighten my shirt. "Was that the call you were waiting for?"

Mac nods, then picks up his dropped coat. He straightens the sleeves nervously, then puts it on. "Still good for tonight?" he asks nonchalantly.

Nothing has happened between us. I merely walked to his door, knocked, and invited him out for dinner. I accept this false reality.

"Yeah." I fight against a new wrinkled in my shirt. "I was thinking… you still like Ethiopian?"

Mac nods again with a smile as he opens the door. I stare at the floor as I lead him into the hallway. He touches his hand against my arm, very gently, and I grab his arm and hold it close to me as we walk.


End file.
